“You should have a crutch,” Jamyang declared, and glanced about the slope. The nearest trees were far below, along the stream that ran by the new settlement.
“I will drive him,” Shan said.
“Of course you won’t,” Lokesh quickly rejoined. “You will take Jamyang back and begin the celebration. By road it is miles to the town but by this sheep path it is a short walk. I will be his crutch, then meet you at the shrine later.”
Shan gazed with foreboding at the old Tibetan, knowing it was futile to argue. “You have your papers?” he asked his friend. Police were appearing with alarming frequency in the valley, checking and rechecking registration cards, even laying unexpected traps on back roads. The people of the valley were steeped in Tibetan tradition, which made them inherently suspect to the government. Lokesh gestured to his shirt pocket and nodded, then pressed his fingers on the gau that hung from his neck, as if to indicate the real source of his protection.
Shan gave a hesitant nod. “Lha gyal lo,” he offered. “We will wait for you before the evening meal.”
The shepherd held up a hand as Lokesh helped him onto his feet. He reached into his pocket and extended the bronze goddess to Jamyang. “No,” the lama said, “I gave it freely. It is an auspicious day,” he declared.
The thief’s face clouded. He remained silent, watching the lama with wide eyes as he limped away, one arm braced over Lokesh’s shoulder. Shan too gazed in confusion. The little dakini had been one of the oldest, most valuable pieces from Jamyang’s shrine.
Without another word the lama moved around the battered truck and climbed into the passenger seat. By the time Shan settled behind the steering wheel, Jamyang was staring at his prayer beads, working them with a strange intensity as he murmured a mantra, a long repetitive invocation that Shan did not recognize.
The silence between them was strangely brittle. Shan began to wonder whether the lama felt Shan had unnecessarily interfered with the thief, whether he grasped the new threat raised by such a man knowing the location of his hut. “You don’t always understand how dangerous it is,” he offered in an apologetic tone.
Jamyang turned and tilted his head at Shan as though surprised at the words. A tiny smile flickered on the lama’s face and he ran his hand through his short black hair. “You don’t always understand how dangerous it is,” the lama repeated in a whisper, then resumed his mantra.
After several minutes the lama seemed to relax and as they edged along a long ledge he raised his hand in a tentative motion. His voice was as light as a feather. “I think I should say words at your pilgrim shrines. Just a few moments.”
They had reached a sharp curve at the edge of one of the steep switchbacks, with an unobstructed view of Yangon, the sacred mountain that reigned over the long valley, the majestic peak that was believed to anchor the local people to the old ways and the old, sleeping deities. Four rock cairns, restored by Lokesh and Shan, rose up from near the road. Built with mani stones, rocks inscribed with prayers, they marked not only the road’s intersection with one of the valley’s many pilgrim paths, but also a semicircular flat above a steep drop-off where the earth was packed hard. The overlook had been used by pilgrims for centuries to pay homage to the land deities.
The lama was out of the truck before Shan brought it to a stop, an energetic bounce in his long stride as he stepped to the rim of the ledge, throwing his arms out as if to embrace the mountain. As Shan watched he spoke in a low confiding voice toward the peak, then turned to visit each of the cairn shrines.
It was a day of rare beauty, the mountain’s snowcap shimmering under the cobalt sky, its slopes alive with the hues of early summer. Shan’s anxiety began to fall away, giving way to a new contentment as he watched the lama. It was not the first time they had saved Jamyang from detection by the authorities, and today had been the closest yet. Each time it happened, Lokesh would later explain that the lama was not destined for bonecatchers, that he and Shan had been chosen by the deities to help save Jamyang for a greater destiny, to help keep the old ways alive.
Shan plucked a sprig of heather and set it on the cairn next to Jamyang. He wasn’t certain the lama knew he was at his side until Jamyang suddenly spoke. “I read once about the age of the planet. It has taken us four billion years to get to where we are,” he said with a melancholy smile.
Shan had grown to deeply care for the lama in the months since he and Lokesh had first encountered him, restoring a wall of mani stones along a lonely track in one of the high side valleys. Jamyang was in his late fifties, a few years older than Shan, not nearly so old as Lokesh. Like many of the lamas he would never speak of his background but it was obvious he was highly educated, not only in the Buddhist scriptures but in history and literature and the ways of the world. Shan knew his old friend had begun to regard Jamyang as something of a bridge, as one of the rare independent, untainted teachers who would survive another generation after Lokesh and the others of old Tibet were gone. Jamyang never joined in when others spoke about the end of time. He still nurtured hope, Shan knew, even though that seed was beginning to dry up and die in so many other Tibetans.
“Lokesh and I climb up the slopes some nights,” Shan offered, “just to sit with the sky. Last month we watched showers of meteors. They all seemed to land on Yangon, as if they were being called in to the sacred mountain.”
Jamyang nodded. “The mountain and its deity have always been there. They will always be there, long after all of us. Man cannot change that, can we?”
Shan studied the lama a moment, not certain if he understood. “No,” came his tentative reply, “we can’t.” He watched in silence as Jamyang walked to the truck and retrieved a copper tube, one of the trumpet sections the thief had taken. He pulled away a plug of wood and extracted a small roll of cloth tied with string. It was a line of prayer flags, handmade flags, each bearing a sacred image and an inscription in Jamyang’s own hand. He gave Shan one end and silently they fastened the line between two of the rock cairns, anchoring the ends under the cap rocks. Each flap in the wind would renew the prayers.
The lama offered a grateful nod when they were done, then gestured toward a cluster of crumbling structures in the distance, on the floor of the main valley. “There are probably signs of visitors on such a day,” he said. It took Shan a moment to realize there was inquiry in Jamyang’s tone. He retrieved his binoculars and trained them on the ruins. The local farmers and shepherds had begun restoration work on the ancient, abandoned convent a few months earlier, working in their spare time. Others, like Lokesh and Jamyang, usually worked there under the cover of night.
“Yes,” he reported, “I see a truck.”
The lama offered another silent nod. “I will join you in a moment,” he said, motioning Shan to the truck. Shan climbed behind the wheel and watched as the lama paced along the prayer flags, touching each in turn, murmuring the words to empower them in their task, then turned to the mountain and abruptly dropped to the ground, prostrating himself to Yangon as a pilgrim might.
It was late afternoon by the time they had parked the truck and climbed the half-mile trail to the lama’s hut. The little structure where Jamyang slept, originally a shepherd’s shelter, was as spare as a hermit’s cell. The lama spent most of his time in the shallow cave above, where he had restored an ancient bas-relief depicting several deities and sacred signs.
Shan coaxed the smoldering embers in the hut’s brazier back to life, adding some of the dried yak dung the lama collected for fuel. They silently shared some tea, then Jamyang filled a small wooden pail with water and they moved up the trail to the shrine.